


Biggles takes a chance, or Jeeves and the international smugglers

by id_ten_it



Series: A barful strife [4]
Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns, Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-06-19 05:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15503679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: Biggles and co. meet Bertie and Jeeves again! This time they're all in Cannes.Biggles is busy chasing an international gang of extortionists, abetted by assorted aircraft and the stiff upper lips of Algy, Bertie L, and Ginger. Of course, things don't go quite as planned.Meanwhile, having made their escape from the nephew crusher, Bertie W and Jeeves are also in Cannes, where Bertie is soon engaged to an appropriate filly and Jeeves is required to come to the rescue, discovering a little about international gangs and their shenanigans in the process.





	1. Raymond reveals a plot

**Author's Note:**

> This started with a little Raymond domesticity and evolved into an unasked for instalment in the longest running Biggles-Jeeves crossover. It's amazing where the muse goes when you're stuck in the back of a plane for far too long.
> 
> Warning: This chapter mentions difficulty conceiving and alludes to miscarriage.

"Don't you send them on a lot of trips, dear?"

"Possibly. They need to keep busy though. Not very good at sitting around."

"I know" Phyllis sighed. For she did know, as only the wife in a childless marriage could. How her dear husband would throw himself into work, or encourage her love of travel, or suddenly indulge in a mania for a sport he'd never cared for before. How many times had he merely nodded in resigned understanding when she'd rolled out of bed in the grey morning light, away from him and warmth and comfort and onto her trusty bicycle and to work? How many times had he stood helplessly by as she cuddled a warm brick to her aching womb, scared to sip at the tea he'd painstakingly made her?

Those days were behind them now, thankfully, but he would still throw himself into work sometimes, and she herself was no layabout. So yes, she understood when he justified sending Bigglesworth and his team off yet again by saying it helped them.   
She could easily imagine it did. A recent month in Cannes had been particularly enjoyable.   
"Cannes was nice" he agreed, and she flushed and laughed,   
"You're as bad as Sherlock Holmes! I never said anything about Cannes!"   
Her husband looked smug but had the humility to blush as well.   
"You started playing with your scarf, dear." Sipping his tea, he added “I’m glad you like it." The Raymonds were relatively well off but a silk scarf like the one Mrs Raymond was wearing was a luxury only affordable after some modest winnings. "It's wonderful" his wife smiled, running the smooth fringe through her fingers, "and just perfect for tea this afternoon. Don't be late, please dear. I want to have a proper tea with my husband and our friends."   
"Don't worry" her husband smiled, "there's nobody looking to steal state secrets at the moment."   
"I should hope not" her prim disapproval was at odds with the laughter in her eyes. The two of them teased each other often but woe betide anyone who suggested Phyllis didn’t have a lovely, caring, husband. "I'll be there. Just one meeting this morning." Finishing his tea, Raymond stood, kissing his wife's forehead fondly. "Have a good morning, won’t you." He left before she could find out their trip to Cannes had been more than just a short break for the two of them.

 *** 

 "I'm off to see the old man" Biggles announced as they climbed the stairs to their office "you chaps go on ahead."

"Sure thing chief!" Ginger chirped, bounding up the stairs with a bright grin. Algy and Bertie followed more sedately, Bertie stopping at their little gas ring to put the kettle on to boil.   
"What do you think Raymond wants?" Ginger asked, crouching to open their safe.   
"I don’t know" Algy admitted, “but it probably means we’re going to be sleeping away from home for a bit." Ginger nodded, counting the number of spins under his breath. "We really need to break that habit" Algy murmured, not unkindly, as he sat down at his desk and pulled a buff coloured folder in front of him. "If you have to open a safe and someone is trying to break in, they’ll hear that a mile away"  
"I'm not saying the combination" Ginger grumbled, pausing at the penultimate number to talk.  
"Maybe not but it’s a bad habit all the same. All it takes is for you to say '40, 2, 3' instead of '1, 2, 3' and there’s a number for you."  
"You’re taking all this very seriously all of a sudden. What’s got into you?"   
"You can never be too careful" Algy said, vaguely.

Bertie interrupted them with a tray of steaming mugs. "Here you go chaps. Now we just have to wait for Biggles."

Algy took the mug with a murmur of thanks. "I think we should prepare instead of wait. Can you ring through to Smyth, please Bertie, and get a report? Find out what birds we can have. Ginger, go and get some maps and charts of Europe and while you’re down that way look in at the radio chaps, see what’s happening with that coded whatsit they were talking about. It could be useful" 

"Right oh!" Ginger pulled the top two files from the safe and handed them to Bertie. "You can finish these when you’re done" he grinned cheekily, heading off and leaving his mug behind.

"I don’t know why I bother" Bertie sighed, moving Ginger’s cup to his desk and placing the files on his own carefully, "we never seem to finish our drinks."

Algy, one hand curled lazily around his tea and the other fiddling with his pen as he read a memo, grunted sympathetically. The office slowly settled into quiet readiness.

 *** 

"Ah, good morning, Bigglesworth" Raymond began, nodding at the pilot, "I trust you are well?"

"Thank you Sir" Biggles murmured, carefully, almost as though other such queries had deteriorated to some uncomfortable mission in the past, "and yourself?" 

"Well thank you. As well as can be expected given we have a family gathering today." Raymond fingered his double-Windsor self-consciously. His tie was even more staid the Biggles’ today, and it was clearly causing him some distress not to have his usual knot of colour in a casual half-Windsor. “Very smart, Sir.” Biggles approved, content with his standard Victorian in staid grey. “Well I didn’t call you in to talk about ties” Raymond grumbled, “I need to give you another mission. Don’t distract me.” Biggles sat, notebook on knee, attentive. 

“Some time ago” Raymond continued, “we received information that there’s a new gang trying to muscle in to the market here. They deal mostly in high-end products. Artwork, precious gems, original manuscripts, that kind of thing. It’s all highly specialised. Of course it’s very difficult, usually, to clear those goods for sale if they have been stolen. As you are aware, something of that nature would gain much publicity if it were reported as stolen. Our sources tell us that many of these goods are being used as collateral either in high-stakes gambling or as blackmail payments. Naturally they wouldn’t be reported when it could become common knowledge that their rightful owner had been blackmailed or cheated at cards. It’s all rather clever. However, no matter the ingeniousness of the plan, it cannot continue. The sorts of people who own these things in Britain are not the sorts of people we can allow to have blackmailed. Most of them are involved in Government work and many of them have access to classified information. Are you following me so far?” At Biggles nod, he continued, “I want you to go to Cannes and find these people. We have some names and identities but we need their logistics chain. More things are coming in here than ever before. They seem to be going through Christies at an increasing rate; they may have someone there working for them. We need to see how they’re moving things into the country. Focus on that. We have other people who can see how they’re obtaining their goods in the first place.” 

Raymond glanced down, running a piece of paper between index finger and thumb. “I have a list of contacts here. Note them down and get everyone to memorise them. I’m sure between you you’ll be able to get on with everyone. Maybe it’s time for Lissie to ease the cogs of social interaction.” Biggles swallowed an undignified sound as he heard Raymond inadvertently quote something Bertie himself had said some time ago. “Yes, Bigglesworth?”  
“Nothing, Sir. Just…my pen slipped.”  
“Well, make sure you get it all down.” Raymond returned evenly, clearly not believing his subordinate at all, “let me know when you can leave. Let me know before 1400 thank you.”  
“Sir.” Biggles stood, clicking his pen lid on with a small snick. Raymond nodded and turned back to his desk as the pilot walked out. 

***

“Alright chaps” Biggles looked around as he entered, comically confused at the empty room. “Where is everyone?”  
“What am I, cut glass?” Algy retorted, looking up from his paperwork.   
“You’re my world, old boy, but you’re not the whole team.” Biggles murmured, regarding Ginger’s cold mug with distaste.   
“Ginger’s down checking on that new encrypted radio, and Bertie’s just left. Something about a man and a dog.”  
“So he won’t be long, at least.”  
“No. He spent so long waiting on the phone that he drank more than his fair share.” Algy grinned, shaking his head and finishing his own tea. “Where are we going?”  
“Cannes.” Biggles perched on his companion’s desk as Algy raised an eyebrow.   
“Yes, all of us. I’ll tell you the details when the others get here but we’ll need an operations base set up there, and we may end up doing several things at once.”  
“Well, it’s a start at least.” Algy admitted, closing the file he’d been working on. “When do we head off?”  
“There’s no rush. Probably in a couple weeks. We need to tell Raymond today. He’s leaving at 2, some nobby function or other. I think we spent five minutes talking about his tie!”

  
Biggles smiled, watching as his partner finished his drink and stretched, fetching brown tie lounging lazily inside his waistcoat. “So long as it isn’t making his eyes more arresting than mine, he may wear what he likes.” Algy stated, magnanimously. 

  
“Who can?” Bertie asked, coming back just in time. “Hullo, Biggles.”  
“Raymond.” Algy replied, “Biggles was just waiting to fill us both in.”  
“Go and see if Ginger can join us.” Biggles told Bertie, “it’ll save time.” 

As soon as he had gone again, Biggles settled once more on the edge of Algy’s desk, one leg swinging freely. “I know we had talked about taking furlough….” He opened.   
“Don’t be silly, Biggles.” Algy nearly snapped, “Cannes will be a good break. Besides, we’ll be together on the 14th. That’s the main thing.” Biggles nodded, smiling thinly. 

Neither of them were usually this open at work but then again they’d tested the soundproofing of the room and found that the old walls made normal conversation entirely inaudible from right outside the door. This didn’t prevent them from talking in hushed tones. “I’m looking forward to it” the older man admitted, a little sheepish.   
“Me too.” Algy smiled up at him for a moment before clearing his throat. “Pass me that readiness report Bertie has on his desk?” Report received, he flipped it open and tapped his lips with the lid of his pen a few times before starting on a clean copy, cross-referencing it with the up-to-date copies of the maintenance logs which occupied a substantial part of their bookshelf. He worked in silence for a while and then looked up. “If there’s truly no rush then we could wait ten days and take two aircraft across, which would give us options. The Auster and then the DC-6 can come along with anything else we need. Both frames will have plenty of hours by then.”  
“That’s a good idea” Biggles approved. 

Moments later, Ginger and Bertie tramped in, Ginger carrying a teetering stack of charts, maps, and a bright red book. “What did Raymond want?” he asked, dropping the papers on his desk with a series of dull thuds. “Careful!” Bertie jibed, rescuing a rolled chart that was making a bid for freedom. “Before we get into that, how’s the radio?” Algy interrupted hurriedly.   
“Oh, it’s coming along” Ginger revealed airily, “She says it’ll be done in the next week. There’s only a couple more tests to go here and then it needs to be tested in the field. I said we could do that.” He added, airily.   
“Did that get you a kiss?” Algy asked drily.   
“No!” Ginger looked scandalised and hopeful all at once. “But if we’re really going somewhere it makes sense, right?”  
“I suppose.” Biggles sighed.   
“I already know all about it…” Ginger wheedled.   
“I said I suppose.” Biggles returned, walking to the window and looking out briefly. Turning, he changed the subject. “I’ll tell you what Raymond wants.” Briefly, yet omitting nothing, he did so. At the end he took the page containing the contact information out of his notebook and placed it in the safe. “We can worry about that later.” He averred, “but for now we’ll focus on the logistics. Algy’s been working up our notes, Bertie, so you and he had better finish that. Ginger, we can do some route planning.” Ginger, eyes alight, started rummaging in his stack of updated charts. 


	2. The nephew crusher

“Jeeves” I said one morning, as I surveyed the remains of two delectable kippers, “I think I might go to Cannes this year. We skipped the usual trip to Europe last year, and if you recall the year before we were at Monte Carlo.”  
“I recall, Sir.” Jeeves intoned, removing the remains respectfully. “Would you like me to book tickets today, Sir?”  
“By all means, Jeeves, by all means.”

  
Now, hang on a minute, I can hear you say, is this the voice of true love? Does one call the object of ones adoration Sir, or Jeeves, as the case may be? Not unless one is into that sort of playacting, anyway. No. Normally, as the astute among you no doubt recall, we are on a first name basis around the home. However the Wooster abode was currently housing three people of iron will, viz, myself, Jeeves, and Aunt Agatha. Aunt Agatha, the Aunt who spends much time sharpening her tongue on hapless nephews, and crunching down on a tasty piece of steel or broken glass, is not noted for her trips to the Wooster residence. Usually upon coming to London she stays at the Savoy, or the Ritz. For some time she had actually maintained a London residence until the fun to be had bullying hotel staff could not be ignored. However she had recently heard that a servant at the Ritz (or was it the Savoy?) had opened a door onto a dog’s paw. In her mind such animal abuse was tantamount to assaulting her own self, and fearing such a fate would befall MacKintosh she hastened to stay elsewhere, to wit, my flat. With such a presence in the house one could hardly spend the morning tangled in the sheets with one’s man, or be heard calling him a precious lambkin. The nephew crasher had risen early, as was her want, and was now sitting – bolt upright – on the Chesterfield awaiting my attendance. We were going to take MacKintosh for a walk.

“Cannes is a good idea, Bertie.” She pronounced from her throne, “If you can’t get a job you should at least get a wife. There are dozens of eligible ladies at Cannes.”  
“Do you really think so, Aunt Agatha?” I enquired politely, as surprised she found this a good idea as I would be if Jeeves sat down and put his feet up on the dining room table. “I do. Now come. I will tell you about some of them on our walk. Are you familiar with the Weeble Albe Smyths?” When I shook my head she tutted gently, as to a dull child, and chivvied me out the door almost before Jeeves could provide the young master with hat and whangee.

***

Having endured a lecture on the delights of Miss Weeble Able Smyth, Miss Montague, Miss Brathwayte, Miss Braithwaite, and numerous other ladies who were capable of moulding poor Bertram like an old log in a damp corner, I was finally allowed to return to Wooster GHQ. After a staid lunch, Aunt Agatha announced her intent to dine at her club and, upon her going, I breathed a sigh of relief and downed a cocktail.

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Jeeves and self don’t just drop trou when the mood strikes us. When Aunt Agatha left we did not hop to it like rabbits. We didn’t even hop to it like turtles. However it was pleasant to indulge in a short labial press and sit in his kitchen as he prepared us dinner. A sort of cosy feeling, you know, like a cat in front of a fire.

Jeeves had placed our tickets on his kitchen table, and now I chattered on about Baccarat and Faro – two games I have a passing fondness for – as he prepared the jolly old roast beef. “I can’t wait” I assured him. So it was that, for once, I escaped the country with Aunt Agatha’s blessing, and ended up in Cannes.

***

“Ah Cannes.” I looked around the hotel room with satisfaction, giving my man a warm smile. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been here with an Aunt’s blessing without an Aunt in tow. It gives me an awfully good feeling, what?” I mused, regarding the Lilliputians on the street below with a feeling of good will and joi d’vivre.   
“Indeed.” The fact the Jeeves was leaving the ‘sir’ off the end of this indicated to me that he was feeling as safe and happy as I was, and we would be able to continue at least most of the activities that we enjoyed in the flat. I beamed at him, and felt the old ticker give a jump as his lips quirked up at the edges. “You know.” I mused, “I’m a bit tired after all that travelling. Would you mind seeing about a bath? Then I think I’ll take a rest.” His voice, always delightfully rich and low, lowered a little more as he nodded his approval of this plan. “ _Very_ good, Bertram.”   
I shivered, delighted.

Jeeves and I soon slipped into a holiday routine. He would bring my tea up early and I would be awakened with delightful touches and the sorts of words that only my Reggie could say without sounding like he was the soppiest of people.

Early in his employment I had told him to save the poetry for the long winter evenings, but now that he chose poems that were tender or salacious, depending on the mood, I could quite happily listen to him for minutes at a time. I say minutes advisedly for after a few minutes of looking at my Reggie’s face…well. There are things a gentleman can say in public, and there are things a gentleman can’t, if you take my meaning.   
So the hours and days passed, neither of us spending time away from each other. I wouldn’t have left the room at all – propriety be hanged – except for the need to fill the old tum and the desire to listen to Reggie’s delightful voice murmur pleasant requests in faultless French. Then, of course, I made the decision to bow to social convention and repair to the casino tables.


	3. Finery and Flippancy

“Do come on old thing! You can’t expect us all to live like monks!” Bertie readjusted his bow tie, missing the amused look Biggles shot Algy.  
“Most monks I’ve heard of spent their time making beer or exploring the world” Biggles rejoined mildly, “Good luck you two” he added, as he followed Bertie from their room. Ginger and Algy grinned identical grins and headed up the road to the left, towards the aerodrome. Biggles and Bertie, meanwhile, got a handy taxicab to the largest casino around.

***

“Your sporting blood is up, isn’t it old thing?” I enquired as Reggie’s dear suave head remained at the window, “I can’t say you’re wrong. Let’s make today the night we strike lucky eh?” I smiled what I hoped was a becoming grin. “More fun than a flutter on the gees-gees, wouldn’t you say?”  
“There’s a certain mathematical precision in a casino that is missing from the race course.” Jeeves admitted, turning to regard me with what I once heard Aunt Dahlia describe as an inscrutable gaze. It never ceases to amaze me how people claim not to be able to read my beloved. He tells me it is because I spend more time looking at his features than most and I remind him his features are simply smashing and must be looked at.

Appropriately attired, Jeeves and self sallied forth. Jeeves is always well dressed of course, but that night he was wearing a penguin suit as formal as mine and looking a dashed sight better in it than I had ever imagined a black suit could look. The joy of Cannes, of course, is that whilst at the table anyone could be who they liked, and tonight that meant we were dressed as equals. It gave me quite a warm feeling just thinking about it.

I was imbibing some of Bacchus’ best, and trying to work out if I was better off sticking to the same bet or not, when I saw a familiar figure pass by some two tables away. Jeeves and I had decided to be prudent and not spend all night next to each other for exactly this reason. This one instance I decided that discretion was the better part of v., and remained put. Not only was the now distant f. figure ignoring me but he was well known to me partially due to our time together at a particular gentleman’s club. The sort of club, if you follow me, that you don’t take your Aunt to for lunch – and also not the Drones. Nothing would be rescued by telling Jeeves to keep away. Bertie and his chum Biggles were both aware of that particular attraction; as to how Bertie managed to be as dense as a particularly dense fruitcake, well, a man who has spent as much time with Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps as I have cannot be surprised by anything anymore.

“Bertie?” I hear the more noisesome amongst you cry, “why the sudden switch to the formal?” It’s very simple, you see – I speak now not of Bertie Wooster, but Bertie Lissie, a friendly egg who hangs about with the afore-mentioned Bigglesworth, and flies planes. There’s another couple of chaps too, Algy – a sort of suave charmer who is yet somehow able to remain unattached to women without any sort of ill feeling – and Ginger, the only one actually interested in women amongst them. Poor chap never seems to find any interested in him, but women are well known for their poor decisions. It was nice to see that a couple of them were taking a break, anyway.

So deep was I in these musings that I ceased to practice the sharp-eyed vigilance a man of tender years must practice in these places if he wishes to remain undisturbed. Finishing my drink and looking for somewhere to place the empty glass, I caught a girl looking at me. Sadly this isn’t as unusual as one might think, in this free-and-easy age, so I employed my usual technique of a non-committal smile and turning away. I always aim to look as nonchalant in these moments as it is possible to look with the spectre of marriage reaching out his bony hand towards me. Inside my stiff-fronted shirt front (Jeeves has won that particular battle), however, my heart beat rapidly. Some sixth sense must have told me what would happen next, for it was mere moments later before she was standing in front of me, having apparently stalked me like my Aunt Dahlia stalks the fox.

“Bertie Wooster, as I live and breathe!” she beamed.   
“What ho” attempted self, casting about for an escape.  
“What ho!” she returned cheerfully, looking for one dreadful moment like she was considering hitting the corpus a la Honoria Glossop. “I recognise you from your Aunt’s description! Phoebe Weeble-Able-Smyth.” She held out a hand in much the same manner the King may do. I have never met the chappie, but I am assured he walks around the place being regal. I took the hand carefully and with a certain amount of terror. This was the woman my Aunt had decided I should marry.

Just as I was beginning to enjoy myself and relax with the love of my life, in a cruel twist of fate here was a woman determined to marry me. “Oh. Ah.” I replied, lest I be taken for taciturn.  
“Let’s have a drink to celebrate!” She clasped my arm in a vice-like grip and scuttled me sideways like a captured crab, till we reached a waiter in a brilliant white mess jacket. My heart broke a little at the sight, remembering my younger, carefree, days with a sigh. The filly didn’t seem to notice, releasing me from the v. l. g. to take a drink, gabbling away about her luck at the tables as though it were the most interesting topic in the world. I personally didn’t find it that interesting, especially as she was merely guessing at roulette. I swallowed a sigh with my drink and looked around for inspiration.

“But I say” she shrilled, slapping my free arm, “here I am gabbling on about that like a ninny.” I perked up a little at this pronouncement, only to sink back in my chair again a moment later. “I promised myself that I’d ask you about Spindrift right off.” She pronounced, apparently dead to my spirit sinking down past my well-fitting silk socks. “I was given a copy, you see, when it first came out, and I enjoyed it so very much. My friend knows the author and we met at a dance not that long ago. Her Mamma and mine….” She twittered on but I know not what she said as I was utterly lost in a wasteland of fear. I felt rather like an antelope must feel when, upon being approached by a lion, that lion then watches him running away. Just as the antelope thinks he is free the lion whips out a gun. I mean to say, bad enough have the W-A-S there talking to me when all I wanted was my man, but then to have to talk about Spindrift! Well!   
“So her Mamma said I must say how I knew her and told me all about it. I do think it was funny! Fancy being put off by a little thing like a moustache.” She laughed and the noise made my bones freeze more than a little.

Honoria Glossop’s laugh was a little like that. This dashed filly sounded like infantry tramping over a tin bridge. I shivered.

  
“Yes, it is a little cold here.” The strapping lass crooned, so I was obliged to escort her elsewhere.

Somehow I ended up sitting drinking with her in a warm little nook, and I couldn’t help looking around a little desperately for Reggie. I needed a rescue before those slavering jaws got hold of me. Just as I was beginning to think that great brain had lost its touch and I would be left to kiss the girl, the massive brain, handsomely attired in his dear face and super body, came around the corner.

  
“Oh dear” I trilled, jumping to my feet, “there’s my friend. He needs me. I’d best leave you old thing.” She stood too, looking determined, so I gabbled a quick “see you tomorrow”, pecked her on the cheek, and hoofed it like the lion of earlier was after me. Reggie, sensing hurried movement, walked briskly after me and we only slowed once we were well outside.

“You found Lady Weeble-Able-Smyth there?” he surmised, as we passed through a quiet square. “I think it would be more accurate to say that she found me” I gasped, finally stopping and looking around. Hearing no footsteps behind us I took a deep breath and then another. “Reggie, she’s bally awful” I whispered, and at his flickering eyebrow I dropped his name and continued in the same vein for some time and in no small amount of detail. Discretion is all very well up to a point but some things are too much for a fellow to bear without knowing his own true turtle dove is there beside him. “She’s like a hideous cross between Aunt Agatha, Florence Craye, and Honoria Glossop” I bleated feebly, walking on when he urged movement with a soft touch to my elbow.   
“I am sorry to hear that” he murmured, as quietly as a sheep on a mountain considering clearing its throat. “However I have some news that may cheer you. Our mutual friends Lord Lissie and Major Bigglesworth are here, apparently with Mr Lacey and Mr Hebblethwaite, as well.”  
“Oh yes I saw them” I remembered, following him like a lamb to the hotel.   
“They are engaged in some work for the Government.” Reggie informed me, thanking the door man.   
“I say!” I I-say-ed. “I thought they were here on holiday!”   
“Only a working break” Reggie informed me, holding the suite door open and following me in. “Major Bigglesworth intimated that should you be available, a meeting would be most appreciated.” As he said this, his clever fingers were divesting the corpus of its clothes. Not wanting the chap to feel alone in his efforts, I did the only decent thing I could do and joined in, divesting him of his significant sartorial achievements.


	4. Algy gets a job offer

Algy and Ginger, meanwhile, had not been idle. When they had started their current journey, Bertie had suggested that he should be the one to go to the airfield, because, as he put it, he could parley-vou with the best of them. Biggles, retaining control of their group despite his frequent assertions that he was getting too old by half to be running around the world leaping in and out of aircraft, had replied that although Ginger admittedly spoke French in the same way he had learnt English – that is to say, learnt from bad romances and generally not in a way that would impress at the Sorbonne – he did at least have solid skills at appropriating items of interest. “Besides” Algy had grinned from behind his coffee cup, “I happen to be perfectly capable of speaking French.” Bertie looked surprised, Biggles a little pink. “and casinos aren’t really my thing any more, so we’ll head off and look at the jolly old kites while you two can dress up and smile sickeningly through that horrid excuse for champagne they always serve in Cannes.”   
“Don’t I get a say in all this?” Ginger had protested feebly. The others turned on him as one man “No!”

All that was in the past, however, and now Ginger and Algy were strolling onto the airfield in the late afternoon sun. “Let’s hope the food here is better than the last club we ate at!” Ginger joked. Their last club meal had been a work of art from a new chef trying to prove his worth. Algy hadn’t eaten for days afterwards, having been stuffed as full as the geese that had featured in their pate. “If it is, we’ll put on so much weight we’ll need a ‘plane each to fly us home!” Algy pointed out, leading the way into the club.

The club, as with most clubs the men had been in to on French aerodromes, was stuffy with smoke and full of French chatter. The two Englishmen were told that there were no tables free – a fact that Ginger had already noted – ordered a drink each, and leant against the bar. Algy carefully manoeuvred them to be near a group of local aviators, and eventually managed to inveigle his way into their conversation. Three rounds of drinks later and they were all firm friends. Ginger tried to help the older man guide the conversation towards cargo flights or flights into England, but the men were not particularly forthcoming on these topics to start with. For half an hour or so they mostly drank, and both Britshers began to despair. Finally, however, Algy remarked that he himself was thinking of starting a business in this ‘so fine city’, specialising in taking select French goods back to England, and perhaps being able to find something in England that the French in turn may wish to purchase.

This was, luckily, the right approach. They were running out of ideas, so Algy breathed a sigh of relief. A man was called over, and then a second and third, and all three were displayed as the competition Algy would be going up against. The general consensus was that any Englishman – Algy compressed his lips and looked grave and interested – would not be able to compete with the Frenchmen. Between them, they had the market sewn up. There was no possibility – no, not a single chance – that Algy would be able to offer anything.   
Algy withdrew his cigarette case, rummaged carefully, withdrew a hand-rolled cigarette, regarded it closely, and returned it regretfully to the case as though he had forgotten where he was for a moment. He glanced up just as the eyes of one of the Frenchmen rested on him, and managed to colour slightly. “I suppose you’re right” he murmured, regretfully, “Another round of drinks for my talented French compatriots!”   
“Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?” Ginger remarked as they awaited their drinks. “Nonsense. Though I could do with a bite any time. I don’t mind telling you it’s rather later than I had hoped.”   
“Hopefully we can get something soon” Ginger agreed. With a display of his usual magnetism, Algy managed to attract the waitress’s attention soon after and they took their leave of the group for a small dining table. Ginger stubbornly practiced his French by ordering for them, rather than letting Algy handle things, but other than that it was rather a successful evening. The high point, however, arrived when they were leaving the establishment. Ginger had gone on ahead whilst Algy settled up and gently convinced Mlle that she was better off finding a local than following a foreigner like him around, so when the older man left the building, he was leaving alone.

***

“I thought I’d lost you” Ginger greeted him, pushing himself off the fence and waiting for Algy to catch up. “What’s eating you?” he added more nervously, noting too late his companions pallid face.   
“That chap offered me a job.” Algy spluttered, running a hand through his hair and looking as though such a thing had never happened before. “Said he liked a man with a bit of spunk and would I like to work with him.”   
“You said no, of course.”  
“Of course not! I said I’d think about it. If he is offering it for the reason I think he is then I shall take the job with both hands.”  
“You will not!”  
“I will too! Think about it. If this chappy thinks I’m the sort of fellow who goes around smoking special cigarettes and has a sort of understanding of the underbelly of civilisations, and he wants me to work for him, then he probably wants me to work for him because of that understanding. That’s the sort of thing that we’re here to look in to.” Algy tapped a cigarette out of his case, lit it, and took several deep puffs as he strode down the road towards town. Ginger shook his head; Algy usually relegated walking as the sort of activity that other people did. Seeing him walking down the road and smoking was a sign that the man was thinking things over. Stopping shaking his head, Ginger lengthened his own strides and followed, hoping that they would be able to take a taxicab back to their hotel soon enough.

By the time they’d been walking for a couple of miles, Algy seemed to have made a decision, and turned to the road in the hopes of a lift. It was quite a lot later than Ginger had expected by the time they eventually got back, although their two companions were apparently still out. Algy, seeing his empty room, thinned his lips and reached for another cigarette. “See you at breakfast” he murmured, nodding at Ginger amicably enough but clearly not really paying attention.   
“See you.” Ginger agreed, giving it up as a bad job and heading down to the bar. “No need to sit around thinking” he told himself, “may as well have a bit of a drink.” Drink ordered he added, “Bertie’ll just wake me up when he comes in anyway.”

***

When Algy awoke the next morning, his cigarette case was neatly on his bedside table, and he squinted at it for a moment before rolling over. As he had expected, there was Biggles in the bed next to him, hand tucked against his shoulder and lips parted a little in relaxed slumber. Smiling, the younger man stretched and sat up, rubbing his hair back and doing the same for his companion before getting up and dressing himself.

   
“You’re up early” Biggles grumbled, hand pushing down onto the still-warm sheet as he levered himself upright.   
“I didn’t get back in the early morning” Algy retorted, his morning smile taking any sting out of the words.   
“True. True.” Biggles yawned and stretched, “I think it will be another late night tonight. In fact, it might be for all of us. Bertie Wooster is here and he invited us for dinner.”  
“What?” Algy ejaculated, “he’s not here is he?”  
“Rather.” Biggles reiterated, “and he and Jeeves are interested in dinner with the two of us.”  
“Oh alright.” His companion agreed, “but don’t you worry about spending nights at the Casinos. I had a very interesting job offer after dinner.” Briefly, yet omitting nothing, he told Biggles the whole story. When he had finished Biggles lit a cigarette, whistling low as he did so.   
“That’s a turn for the books. I don’t mind telling you that last night was particularly fruitless, unless you consider the money Bertie – our Bertie – won. You accepted of course?”  
Algy shook his head. “I didn’t want to appear too keen. I said I’d think on it but strongly suggested I wouldn’t think too long. We’re going to meet tomorrow morning.” Briskly, he stood again, taking himself to the mirror to begin his morning battle against curly hair. “Ginger and I agreed to meet for breakfast” he observed mildly, “he might wonder where you are too.”  
“Less likely to wonder if you aren’t there to remind him” Biggles tried, and was granted a peck on the lips for his trouble.  
“I’ll see you down there” Algy promised, and disappeared. Biggles’ chuckles followed him down the corridor.


	5. Jeeves' absence is noted

_Dear Drew,_

_We’ve been keeping pretty busy here, as you can imagine. The old place might look different but really it’s all the same, just with different trappings. People still promenade and so on; some girl apparently got nipped by a shark here last year but there’s still plenty of bathing; mixed and not so mixed._

_It’s a shame you can’t come out here while we’re working; Biggles expects to be off again in a couple of days so he and Algy are sharing temporarily. There’s plenty of space for visitors so you could be here looking up the old spots. I haven’t had a chance to get out to the stables yet so you’d probably call the whole trip a waste of bally time._

_I was at the tables last night and ran into an old pal – you remember Bertie Wooster?_

Bertie’s lips thinned as he wrote about the man who had effectively introduced him to his especial friend. The inability to write clearly was a constant frustration, one he had once thought would be lifted after the war.

_Biggles has some bee in his bonnet about the chappie so it sounds as though we’ll be seeing rather a lot of him. Perhaps it’s all got too much and Biggles is going to pass it over to Jeeves!_

_I thought I’d have time to write more, but what with the late night last night and Ginger’s bally interruptions about breakfast, it looks like I’ll have to sign off and post something short. If you have a moment you might just look something up for me in that book I lent you._

Bertie went to his jacket, fishing out his pocket notebook and consulting a list there, a half-smile curling his lips into his mustache. Chanting ‘shake the buds of May – blue’ under his breath, he settled back to the page.

_I think I marked it by a blue bookmark but I could be quite wrong. Could you let me know what it says?_

_Your pal,_

_Bertie._

***

“I thought I might visit the club today, old thing” I asked my paragon over breakfast. Well, my breakfast, as even on holiday together Jeeves still tends to get up earlier than self. For a short time he tried postponing breakfast until I was awake, but the resultant hunger pangs weren’t worth the effort. Perhaps it’s because of his height, or more likely due to his immense brain, but a regularly fed Jeeves is a far nicer thing than a hungry Jeeves.   
“An excellent idea” the great man concurred, “when should I expect you back?”  
“Oh, I don’t know.” Luckily I glanced up at that moment, otherwise the slight pressure as those handsome lips pressed together in annoyance would have been lost. “How about mid-afternoon?” I tried, then, “three?”   
“Three will give us ample time between you returning and Major Bigglesworth and his colleagues arriving for dinner.” Jeeves allowed. Smiling, I got myself outside the eggs and b., and inside the linen lounge suit. “See you at three then old top.” I said cheerfully, kissing him on both lush lips and then each cheek – French style, you know – before he could protest. He was still blushing when I slipped out the door, and I hummed cheerfully on my way down the street. Today was a good day.

Sadly, the day did not remain good. I had taken a long route to the club we had reciprocal rights with, and was lingering in the park I had found on my way, when I saw a well-dressed girl in the middle distance. In vain did I pay particular attention to the ice cream vendor nearby. In mere moments the female was upon me, and it was the female I was least wishing to see. In retrospect, of course, I should have paid attention to a vendor who was open.

“Mr Wooster!” The Weeble A-S bellowed, “Mr Wooster! How good to see you again!” I have recorded in the past how an Aunt may bellow to another Aunt such that their tones may be heard across a fairly large primeval swamp. The A-S wasn’t quite at that level yet, but her dulcet tones would certainly have been heard across a sizeable pond or lake. With the suavity of a great man, I smiled and greeted her. “What ho! Amazing seeing you here, what?”  
“Oh you _are_ funny Mr Wooster.” She slapped my shoulder a la the Glossip and I staggered towards a small child. “you and I are both adults.”  
“Oh. Ah.” I agreed, surreptitiously wriggling the old ball and socket. “Quite.”  
“How did you know this was where I’d be? I didn’t think I’d told you.” She giggled, clasping one talon over her ruby-reds. “Surely I didn’t…you know.” Thankfully her voice lowered at this point and my ears took a welcome break. “drink” she whispered.  
“No more than I did.” I hastened to reassure her, “no no you didn’t tell me. I was, well, funny thing really…” She didn’t look the sympathetic type, no symp. at all. She looked rather more like a crusty old battle-axe considering its next victim. Perhaps that victim would be the man who admitted to thinking with his stomach; I changed tack. “Well, not funny per se, more along the lines of slightly interesting. What I mean to say is, well, you see it happened like this.”  
“Mr Wooster.”  
“I was just moseying on down...”  
“Mr Wooster!”  
“Oh, Ah, I mean walking. I was walking briskly on down here because I thought…”  
“MR WOOSTER!”  
“Hallo?”  
“Mr Wooster. Let us accept that you have found me, and leave it at that for now shall we?” At my nod, she continued, “I’m glad to have met you here. I’m early for an appointment.”  
“Oh?” I enquired, politely, still recovering from the near miss.  
“Yes.” She said firmly. Dimly, the old noggin realised I was to take her to coffee until it was time for her appointment. I have had more unpleasant drinks, but very few that unpleasant without a member of the family present.

Following an ice age or two, I was released from eternal bondage. A French chappy sauntered past – not unusual in this neck of the woods – and peered around as though looking for someone.

“I must go. I’ll look for you at the tables tonight. Till tonight!” With a smack on the cheek, which I thought showed some bally nerve since she’d known me about as long as I’d known her, which is to say not very, she bustled off to annoy the Frenchman instead. I was just restoring the nerves with a cup of tea when a familiar-ish voice murmured, “mind if I join you?” and Algy Lacey was folding his legs in under my table.   
“I say!” I expostulated, “you’ll give a chap a heart attack.”  
“Not as much as that woman will.” Algy shot back, winking and signaling for another cup. “I need to talk with you and this is as good a place as any.”  
“You’re seeing me tonight!”  
“We need to talk before then.” I watched him pour himself a cup, wrinkle his nose at the local attempt at making a decent drink, and take a careful sip.

“Are you listening, old thing?” he waggled his eyebrows at me till I nodded, then leant forward to murmur at the shell-like. “What do you know about that woman you were here with?”  
“The Able-Smith? Not a lot.” At his look, I attempted to tell him everything I knew. As Aunt Agatha would say, that would never take long no matter the topic. Prospective fiancées are a fearful thing to make a man talk about, but I tried to tell him everything.

“Thank you” he said at the end, “that’s very helpful. I don’t suppose she mentioned anything about the chappy she was meeting?”  
“No, nothing” I admitted, “merely that she was early. He just came by the window and she jumped off after him. One doesn’t like to cast aspersions, but in these days of free and easy morals, well….one does wonder, doesn’t one?”  
“One does indeed.” Algy replied, more grimly than I thought necessary for such a conversation.

“I say” I exclaimed, “you don’t subscribe to that frightful rot about the spirit of the empire being eroded by loose morals and so on, do you?”   
The man tipped back his head and laughed, like a land flowing with milk and honey, “certainly not!” he choked out, “nothing of the sort old thing.” More seriously, he tapped his ring finger and winked at me, “be a bally hypocrite if that was the case anyway.”   
I nodded, still befogged as the dickens. “Well what then?”  
“Just a spot of confusion at the office.” He assured me airily, standing and stacking the lady’s tea things neatly, “tell you about it tonight. Pippip”  
“Toodle-pip.” I responded, and ordered another cup to help me think. This was becoming quite the morning.

***

What with one thing and another, I was a little later than I should have been for dinner, and two of the chappies were already sitting at the table. “What ho!” I trilled as gaily as one can when one is running late.   
“Evening!” Algy trilled back, sipping something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a château.  
“Hullo.” Biggles joined in, pale fingers stark against the dark red wine he was sipping at. “Apologies for starting without you, but the waiter was rather forceful.”  
“No matter, old thing!” I chirruped, and ordered a glass of whatever excellent vintage Algy was sipping at, “the chaps at the club here are all decent enough, but the doorman didn’t seem to understand the jolly old French. Can’t imagine why, he speaks enough of it to everyone else. Well, it took that long to get sorted that I wanted a taxi back to the hotel that in the end I just decided to walk. Set everything else this afternoon back a bit, don't you know…” I shook my head as the waiter started hovering, “just the three of us is it?”  
“Bertie was supposed to meet us here. Ginger’s a bit tied up at the moment.” The way his lips looked – like a railway line disappearing into a tunnel – I gathered he meant the laddie was sleuthing away rather than enjoying himself.   
“Jolly good! We’d best wait for Lissie then.” I turned to tell the waiter this but Algy, bless his socks, was already nattering away in the local lingo and managing it much better than I had with the doorman, if the man’s disappearance was anything to go by.

“This is jolly good drink, old thing.” I told the younger aviator, “I shall have to get Jeeves to procure some.”  
Biggles sort of perked up at that. I don’t mean that he sat up straighter or anything, because I doubt he could have sat up straighter than he already was, but his eyes slewed around and he licked his lips, like a hound that’s caught the scent. (Algy told me once that even when Biggles was 18 and not quite sure whether he’d be around the next day, he still had the most deliciously self-assured posture. Apparently Algy likes a man in uniform just as much as the rest of us.)

“How is Jeeves?” was how the working man started.   
“Well enough.” Self replied, truthfully, “he’s been off broadening his mind today, at some of the museums I think. Very learned cove, you know.” He and I had talked of other things that afternoon.  
“Indeed. I don’t suppose he’ll be coming to pick you up?”  
“I shouldn’t think so.”  
“That could be quite good.” Algy broke in, as Biggles looked more like the scent had turned out to be a week-old carcass.   
“Do you need Jeeves’ help?” I may have sounded somewhat incredulous at that, having thought these chappies were friends with both of us, and more than capable of sorting out their own messes to boot.  
“Yes.” Algy glowered at Biggles, and I hoped fervently there wasn’t a tiff brewing. Jeeves and I had seen one of those before, in a hospital of all places, and I for one wasn't eager to see another.

“What ho!” cried another familiar voice, “fancy seeing you chaps here!” Bertie Lissie sat down next to me, beamed around, and the party got rather underway. It was, in fact, quite a lot later that we eventually all ended up in the temporary Wooster HQ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, Bertie L is a complete sap when it comes to his man (ref Part Two of the series to meet him in person). Because Lissie is also nervous about writing things down, however, he has to hide marked poetry books around the place and then get Andrew to go and read them. I make no apologies for Lissie's taste in romantic poetry including time-worn classics, because cliches exist for a reason.


	6. Bertie gets a shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, writing a story with two characters having the same name and similar attributes was a terrible plan.

The three aviators followed Bertie into the flat, allowing Jeeves to tidy their outside wear away. Lissie, catching the tender smile and gentle hand on the small of his namesake’s back, was particularly glad that his companions were not paying attention. Biggles had moved to the window, looking out at the people passing in the street and lighting himself a cigarette. His companion, polishing his monocle, followed to make use of the lighter before Biggles returned it to his own pocket.

“Jeeves, a word?” both Berties glanced at each other, Lissie feeling his mouth go dry and struggling to take an unconcerned puff from his cigarette. Biggles, watching the interaction, wondered if it would be in this moment that he and Algy’s partnership was exposed, probably through the younger man’s need to comfort what looked like an increasingly alarmed aviator. “Smoke?” he interpolated, offering Bertie one and then his lighter, “this is a nice view” he added, inconsequentially. He wondered what Algy was up to.

“Yes it is, isn’t it?” the younger man replied, artlessly, accepting the distraction, “there’s a rather nice place just round the corner, actually, serves bread and brioche and so on. Jeeves has been taking the young master through their menu and so far I haven’t found anything bad.” The three of them sat down near the fireplace, their host finishing his cigarette before jumping up and pouring three more drinks for them.

The door into Jeeves’ small room swung silently shut, the larger man turning to regard the aviator with an intrigued expression on his face. Algy noted the sparse decoration and well-built but dated furniture, recognising the small table under the window (with a small posy in a vase which didn’t quite match the room) as one their own landlady had in her kitchen. This was not his domain at all.   
“Thank you” he began, straightening his tie and his shoulders at the same time, “I appreciate the time.”  
“Of course, sir.” Jeeves replied, smooth as the door behind them. Algy reflected again how Jeeves and Bertie complemented each other despite the difference between their excitability. He swallowed, steadying himself.

“The thing is, we’re here on a job regarding smuggling, and probably involving certain women of repute. I am relying on your discretion here.”   
“Of course sir.”  
“Of course, Jeeves. Briefly, individuals are attaching themselves to aristocratic young men, insinuating themselves and keeping an eye out for the main chance. Once spotted, the objects d’art are either gifted to the women, or taken by them, and smuggled to buyers in other countries.” The rest of the story was not necessary, Biggles and he had decided. The fewer people who knew, the better.  
“of course sir.” Algy wondered if Jeeves would make him come out and say it. “Do you have proof that it is Lady Weeble-Able-Smyth, or do you merely suspect?”  
“Good man!” Algy ejaculated, relieved. “We have proof that she is currently scouting for a man of good breeding to shower her in gifts. One doesn’t want to speak ill of anyone, however Bertie is rather transparent.”  
“Mr Wooster has a noble heart, sir.”  
Algy grinned, nodding quickly, “none nobler! But it does rather make him transparent. He couldn’t possibly act as normal with her if he knew.”  
“Indeed not sir. He would consider her a cad, if you will excuse the expression.”  
“Jeeves, I have heard you say considerably worse.” Algy paused, both of them a little pink, then uttered a muffled oath, “sorry, Jeeves. That was uncalled for and I apologise.”  
“It is of no matter sir.”  
“It is of matter, Jeeves. I apologise unreservedly.” Another pause. “I extend that apology to Biggles as well. He has been very protective of late.”  
“I understood Major Bigglesworth to be concerned regarding your activities recently, sir.”  
Algy’s lips thinned, “that’s one way to put it.” He sighed deeply.  
“Some would find it promising that their life partner, if you will, was so concerned for them, sir.”  
“Some would.” Algy agreed grimly.   
“I trust this tête-à-tête will not cause undue difficulty, sir.”  
Galvanised, Algy shook his head and laughed awkwardly, “I should hope not, Jeeves” he muttered, then, “If you could keep us informed about any…undue activity…with the lady that would be much appreciated.”  
“Of course sir.” Jeeves regarded Algy with a certain amount of fondness, before making a noise that reminded the airman of spring in Wales. “Allow me to adjust your tie, sir.” With a deft movement, the valet did so, opening the door and ushering Algy out. Feeling rather as though he had for the worst of the conversation – even though he had achieved the aim – Algy thanked him and returned to the sitting room.

He was greeted by an intensely curious look from Bertie, who polished his monocle nervously and emptied his glass in a gulp. “Is that brandy?” Algy asked nonchalantly, sitting next to Biggles and trying to be reassuring without giving away that he thought the man needed reassuring. “Here you go old chap!” Their host pressed a glass into Algy’s hand, refilling the others’ as well.   
“Thanks” Biggles acknowledged, shortly.   
“Welcome old thing” the younger Bertie grinned, “I’m glad you enjoy it.”  
“Do you know why brandy came about?” Biggles asked, on the receiving end of a stern look from Algy. At a collective shake of the head, he proceeded, “it originates from the practice of taxation being based on the volume of the drink rather than it’s alcohol content. Importers dehydrated their wine with the intent of adding water into it again in England, thus escaping their taxation. Of course it could never last, and the Government introduced taxation by proof, eventually adopting a more scientific method in the mid-1700s.”  
Bertie looked a little lost, “but why did they need to prove they were bringing in alcohol?” His counterpart, warming his glass between his airman’s fingers, caught an indulgent look on the visage of Jeeves as the valet quietly prepared the rooms for the evening.   
“Proof refers to the alcohol content of the drink, not that it is of itself alcoholic.” Biggles explained, looking more than happy – as ever – to share his encyclopaedic knowledge. Biggles’ companions both appreciated the chance to think of other things without the interruption, both used to Biggles’ educational stories. “Initially, the spirit was considered pure, and therefore saleable, when a small amount was burnt and nothing was left over. Soon, it was found that soaking gunpowder in the spirit, then burning that, was a more accurate test as all gunpowder will only light after a good concentration of spirit. So proof meant that you could demonstrate the spirit was of a good quality and concentration because gunpowder soaked in it would burn. Now-a-days of course.” Biggles added, ruminant, “it’s all done by a formula and they have the tax issue locked down very well. Knew a chappie tried to make poteen in the middle east. He’d hidden it away in a barrel he picked up somewhere – “  
“Paris” Algy interpolated  
“and went back a few months later to find out that the angels had been there taking a lot more than their usual two percent. He’d forgotten that instead of the climate being cool and dry it was hot and wet, so there was a lot more evaporating.” Biggles chuckled into his brandy.  
“Poor chappie!” his main audience member grinned, sipping his brandy as if to remind himself it were there. “Sounds like an interesting fellow though.” Biggles made an uncertain noise, clearly not agreeing. Algy knew that he didn’t want to upset the mellow mood by explaining that the man in question was with his much-maligned angels.

They talked a little more, about alcohols they liked and people they knew who were making them, before Algy finished his drink and stretched, ready to leave. Jeeves appeared with their coats just as they realised they wanted them, and the three aviators were soon departing. Biggles and Algy shook hands all round, following each other out. Their companion slapped his pockets, muttering something about his lighter and ducking back into the room.

“Jeeves!” he hissed.   
“Sir?”  
“What did Algy want?”  
“Merely to talk about your work, sir.” As Bertie opened his eyes wide, Jeeves said reassuringly, “I do not believe there is any reason to suspect they would talk about anything else, sir. Reflect that even if they should see something untoward here there is nothing to cause that to reflect on yourself.”  
“True. Very true.” Grinning a sheepish smile, the aviator shook his hand, “cheerio, Jeeves!”

***

Upon returning to their rooms, Biggles beckoned Bertie to follow the other two, shutting the door and turning on the light in the room Algy and himself shared. “What did Jeeves tell us?” he asked, getting straight down to business.  
Algy explained the conversation, missing nothing of importance to the three of them but also refraining from telling Bertie about Biggles and himself.

“That sounds promising” Biggles mused, crossing to the small desk and seating himself at it, regarding his colleagues warmly, “Algy tomorrow you’d better get back to the airfield and make yourself available. Bertie can take Ginger back to the café and start looking for our mysterious man – it will be easier for two of you to blend in.”  
“Of course.” Bertie smiled, smoothing down his moustache, “what will you be doing?”  
Biggles smiled thinly, “If everything goes well, I’ll be talking with home. Did Ginger get the radio working?”  
“I think so” Algy nodded, “he said it was a bit slower than he thought but put that down to not being as familiar with this model.”  
“Bertie, tell him to stop in before you leave tomorrow would you? No need to wake him now, it’s late enough and this isn’t urgent.”  
“Will do.” Bertie stretched, moving towards the door. “Night Biggles, Night Algy.”  
“Night to you too.” Biggles returned, fishing for another cigarette.  
“Cheerio” Algy grinned, shutting the door behind their friend and crossing to Biggles. “How is old Bertie?” He inquired, and at Biggles’ confused look elaborated, “I thought he was going to faint when I went to talk with Jeeves, I assume because he thought I’d taken exception to Wooster’s rather blatant activities.”  
His partner leant back against his chair, releasing a gentle cloud of smoke, and raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t suggesting we tell him anything?”  
“Not at all. The fewer people know the better, especially in our line of work. Besides, it will make things difficult for Ginger. No, I just think that perhaps we need to realise that he might draw some inferences if Wooster continues inviting us to his rooms.”  
“If that happens, and he approaches us about it, I can’t think of another believable option.”  
“Neither.” Algy sighed, “but if you think of one, let me know. In the meantime, I’m for bed. Night old thing.” Suiting action to words, he was soon closing his eyes. Biggles was just preparing to follow suit when there was an urgent knock at the door followed by the handle wiggling wildly. Getting back into his slippers, Biggles opened the door with a stern expression which faded as soon as he saw how worried their interruption was.

“Ginger’s disappeared.” Bertie gasped, looking pale and stunned, “can’t find a trace of him.”  
“Come in and tell us all about it.” Biggles replied quickly, “I’ll just get Algy up.” Leaving Bertie in their sitting room, he disappeared.   


	7. Jeeves solves a problem, and Algy is made useful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't think too much about the state of voice-voice encryption technology or the limitations of radar. At least these things are acknowledged! *Glares at 'Spitfire Parade' and it's lack of inter-plane communications*

“Reggie” I started, as apologetic as a man can be before he is outside his breakfast, “I’m awfully sorry old thing but I have to see that horrid woman today. She all but held me down till I agreed.” I had feared this would upset the man, but he seemed more worried than I thought. “You know there’s nothing…”  
“I know” the dear chap promised, serving up a delicious breakfast with a tender smile, “I just wish she wasn’t so set on you.”  
“Well couldn’t you come up with a plan? Nobody can stand up to you.” If I sounded a bit wistful well, what of it? It’s bad enough having to hide how much we are to each other without having to fend off half the female race as well.   
“I shall consider one, Bertram. For now, though, you must pretend as though you are attracted by her avidity. We must not have her scorned before time.”  
I nodded, sagely, well familiar with the power of scorned womenfolk. The bally epitome of terrifying women. “Nothing for it then” I sighed, gloomy as a rain cloud, “stiff upper lip and all that. Bung me inside a suit and I shall go and be as attracted as a man can possibly be to a filly that is more Aunt than girl.”   


***

“Oh Mr Wooster!” I have mentioned before that if I must spend time with a filly I’d prefer her either to be the jolly sort – like my estimable cousin Angela – or the retiring sort who talked quietly of not very much and then disappeared like mist does when the sun pays it too much attention. The woman greeting me now was the exact opposite of this ideal, greeting me with a stentorian bellow that shifted the hair of the poor chappy directly in her firing line.  
“Oh, er, What ho, and all that.” In my hurry to get the blasted girl seated and talking in a voice that didn’t carry quite so far, I ended up tangled up in the chair and by the time I was seated on it like an Englishman, it was to discover she had ordered for the two of us. I hoped Jeeves wouldn’t leave me with her for too much longer, for the coffee was weak and sweet, the pastries numerous and all rather similar. I do not consider myself a connoisseur of food, but when four of the five p. all have layer upon layer of pastry and butter, with no discernible flavour, and a tendency to dribble, I begin to wonder if they’re worth the trouble. The b. g. tucked in with all the gusto of a boa-constrictor coming off a month of short rations, making noises I imagine a mother boa-constrictor would despair at. I mean to say, I was shocked and I have spent years supping with such stalwart trenchermen as Stilton Cheesewright and Tuppy Glossop.

“I was thinking, dear” the boa-constrictor slurped out around a third cup of sugary possibly-coffee, “we’ve known each other for a while now, and I hope you know how I feel about you. I mean” here she broke off to giggle, a noise that reminded me of something unpleasant stuck in a drain. “I mean, I hope you know I don’t do this sort of thing with just anyone.”   
I returned her expectant gaze with a strong manly smile, “I should think not.” Self attempted, rather befogged.  
“Good! Well, I was thinking that maybe we should make a promise to each other.” She smiled a smile as sickly sweet as the horrid coffee she was force-feeding me, and I felt my heart sink somewhat below my boots. Here it was, the dreaded moment when she picked up the ball and chain and attempted to attach it to Bertram.   
“When my dear Mother first started being courted, my Father gave her a brooch which had belonged to his Grandmother. It’s a lovely cameo, set with sapphires actually, quite lovely. Of course I don’t think you could possibly have something from your Grandmother with you on holiday! But Mother said it really made her realise how sincere he was. She still wears it, you know. It’s _so_ romantic.” And the dratted woman heaved a saccharine sigh that made me stagger it was so gusty.

“Oh, ah?” I attempted, and was then fixed by what I have heard called a gimlet eye. “Oh” I tried again, giving it up for a bad lot. I had absolutely no wish to buy the W-A-S baubles, be they lovely c. brooches or any other kind of decoration, but knew not how to explain this without coming a cropper. A gentleman does not deny a woman her a b. without good reason, and I was without a g. r.. I wondered desperately what my peerless hero Jeeves would do, and realised that I could ask him if only I could buy some time. “I, err, I actually might have something. From the jolly old Grand-mere, you know. Slipped into the bag by mistake you might say. Well, not as to say mistake, more on the off chance. Not that I knew I would find you here but, well, a chap likes to hope.”   
“Oh Mr Wooster!” She clapped her hands in girlish glee, but her eyes made me feel like a small rabbit being sized up for seconds by a boa-constrictor, or perhaps a python. “How simply wonderful. Why! Imagine if it were the right colour for me to wear tonight! That would be simply spectacular.” I must have looked puzzled for she glared at me again and said in a stern sort of voice, “tonight. We are going to the Hotel Royale for dinner and dancing, how could you forget?”   
I was fairly sure that I had never agreed to something quite as awful as dinner and dancing with this filly of the worst order, but a true gentleman cannot say things like that either. Either he is _preux_ or he is not. “Sorry, old th- err, sorry, darling” her glare relaxed slightly, “I was just so distracted by, err, puzzling over where the brooch or necklace might be.” She positively melted at that and I finished the third cup of well-nigh undrinkable coffee with the air of a man who has much on his mind. “In fact” I extemporised – if that word means what I think it does – “I think I shall rush off now to dig it up, you know, so as to put my mind at rest.” I stood, pressing chilled and trembling lips to her proffered paw, “must dash. See you tonight and all that.” And I fairly ran out of the café, stopping only to sprinkle largesse upon the manageress before allowing the door to swing shut between me and the terrifying filly.

***

“Jeeves!” I wailed upon entering the flat, “Jeeves! Rally round!” I rushed towards his lair and found him mid-shimmer, already on the move towards the helpless Bertram. For a few blissful moments I hid in his strong arms, letting him soothe my restless spirit before he led me to the sitting room and bade me settle onto the sofa. Having plied self with hot tea and cool hands on a fevered brow, he perched next to me and coaxed the full story out of me. “So now I have to find the blasted girl a bauble and dance with her all night!” I finished, and if the voice wailed a bit well, this was an emergency.   
“Hush Bertram.” The brainiest cove I know soothed, “hush now.” His embrace was simply spiffing, and I allowed it to soothe me more while the great brain set to work. It took longer than I had initially thought, as though there were things I didn’t understand or he didn’t want me to worry about, but overall that is not unusual for Bertram, so I just sat there and enjoyed his caresses in the curly locks while his brain whizzed along at 100 rpm or thereabouts.

“Bertram” he began, in a voice as soft and gentle as the caress of a fine silken cravat, “you should not buy this woman anything. It would be unfair to suggest to her that you are interested enough to spend this money on her, and from what you have said of her she would expect something that cost a not inconsiderable amount. This is not merely a case of buying her a small memento; you would need to buy her a piece of art as perfect in it’s way as the lovely vase you were so generous as to give me not so long ago.”

  
The damask cheek coloured somewhat at this. Reggie has always had a small vase in his room, filled with a posy or sprig of some plant or other. It was not until we reached our current understanding that I discovered this was something his Mother had instilled in him from a young age, that she had always provided her children with a small flowering or sprouting thing in their rooms each day when she returned from the House she served at, telling them that when they looked at it each morning and evening they should remember the green pastures of their holidays, and feel refreshed. “I’m not a particularly religious man” Reggie had admitted, as I stroked his hair from his distinguished forehead and covered it in kisses, “but that has always stayed with me. Even when the only flowers were poppies.” Too young to understand, I did the best I could with a cuddle, and well-nigh drowned the poor man in green stuffs. It wasn’t until quite recently that I saw a simply spiffing piece of Wedgewood and gave it to the keeper of my heart.

“I’m glad you like it old thing” I mumbled into his strong shoulder, “do you really think I shouldn’t buy her anything?”  
“I really do.” He stroked my hair in that way he has, making me purr, and added quietly, “I think not only will this save you considerable expense and trouble, but it will aid in convincing the young lady that she is better off looking for another man.” This pleased me greatly, and I passed into a sort of feeling of elevated bliss until my darling man gently extricated himself, setting me up with a book and a pot of tea, and going off to beat my penguin suit into submission. Jolly old suit had got rather messy the last night I’d worn it, and it wasn’t entirely my fault.

 

***

Algy was already pushing back the bedclothes when Biggles came in to the bedroom, and had his slippers on by the time Biggles had told him what had happened.

“I’m assuming he didn’t leave anything helpful like a note?” Algy asked Bertie, leaning against the mantlepiece.  
“The room’s exactly the same way as we left it this morning.” Bertie confirmed, “he was supposed to be back in time for dinner here.”  
“This _is_ Cannes.” Algy grinned. At two dirty looks he raised a placatory hand, “alright, alright. I’m as worried as you two are, but we need to keep clear heads. It’s entirely possible that he has just run into a spot of fun and is just a bit late getting back.”  
“It’s also entirely possible that he’s run into a spot of bother and will need fetching” Biggles countered dourly.   
“It is.” Algy agreed, “now how are we going to find out which it is?”  


Bertie peered out at the night sky with a pilot’s calculating eye. “This is just the sort of night I wouldn’t like if I was smuggling stuff into Blighty. Too settled, the sea would be too calm to muddle the radar picture down low.”  
“Not to mention the moon.” Biggles agreed, “Bomber’s moons are treacherous things. I’m with Bertie – if I were smuggling I wouldn’t go tonight at all, not with what we know of their route. Raymond thinks they’re flying into London and we all agreed with him, so we know they’ll be spotted on a night like tonight. Therefore, if Ginger is in trouble –“ Here Biggles broke off to nod at Algy “- and I’m not saying that he certainly is – he won’t be very far away, certainly no further than we could catch up with easily. Besides, Algy is meeting the boss in a few hours to accept a job flying for them, so the boss won’t be going far.”  
Algy bared his teeth, “I’ll start work right away and the first thing I’ll do is look around for Ginger.”  
“Good fellow. Now supposed the chap’s got into some other little bother he knows where we are and he knows we’d rush in to help him no questions asked. So I think we should double check with the front desk that there isn’t a note or we didn’t miss a call, and then assume Algy was right and he’s having a night out practicing his French.” Algy swallowed a laugh. Bertie wasn’t quite so circumspect. “Well alright” Biggles muttered through a blush, “however you want to put it. Jump down to reception, Bertie, and just check for us.” Bertie jumped.

“I didn’t know you liked French that much” Algy teased, crossing to look at the sky as the others had done earlier. “I shall remember that” he added idly, twitching the curtain aside and regarding the moon with a practiced eye.  
James spluttered behind him and Algy regarded him fondly “nothing wrong with it” he assured the helpless man, “you only had to ask.”   
James looked just about capable of replying coherently when Bertie came in, whistling and grinning cheerfully, waving a rather grubby piece of paper.

“Just like Algy said!” he cried, “he sent a note but it got a bit waylaid – some story about the delivery boys sister needing help with something or other, all very convoluted you know – but it got in eventually. He – Ginger that is – says he went out for a walk and to find something to eat away from the hotel and has found a bunch of friendly chaps and he probably won’t be back till after us. Says he has good news but will tell us in person.”

Algy, who had a large and rambling family comprising almost entirely of overbearing sisters now all busily engaged in the all-absorbing practice of running their own homes with a rod of iron, hoped the poor delivery boy was managing after such an ordeal.   
Biggles, blessed with no sisters at all, merely nodded and looked pleased. “Back to bed with us all then. Some of us have early starts.”   
“More fool they” Bertie quipped, waving goodnight at Algy and returning to his own bedroom.

“Well that was exciting” Algy pondered, returning to his bed and rolling himself thoroughly around in blankets.   
“Thankfully not too exciting” his bed-partner agreed, tutting at Algy’s blanket-hogging ways and getting into his own bed.   
“The next time I don’t have an early start…” Algy began  
“Then I will” James grumbled, “or, worse, you’ll nick all the blankets.” He listened to Algy splutter for a moment before adding a fond good night, falling asleep much more quickly than he had dared hope for given the excitement.

***

Algy left early for the meeting the next morning. The meeting itself wasn’t nearly early enough to warrant such a departure but he wanted time to mentally prepare himself. Also, the hotel they were staying in did a perfectly adequate breakfast, but he was beginning to weary of croissants every morning.

He was thus in an excellent frame of mind when he made it to the aerodrome. Approaching the clubrooms, he thought for a moment he was the only one there as everything was still and quiet. Still, he was confident the offer had been genuine so he continued up the steps and into the room. The main club room was lit only through the narrow windows, creating bars of dark and pale light from the morning sun. Dust motes drifted through the air, disappearing in the darkness and reappearing on the other side; a single chair at a corner table had been left on the floor while the others were still on the tables they had been tidied away on the night before. Algy stood very still and listened; hearing slight noises behind the bar he moved that way. The corridor beyond the bar had several closed doors on either side of it but there was a slight glow coming from underneath the one at the very end on Algy’s left so he went and knocked on it, entering when told to.

The room was clearly an office, and just as clearly the occupier didn’t have particularly strong feelings about cleanliness or tidiness. Algy side-stepped an overflowing waste-paper basket and smiled hopefully. “Good Morning, M. Cardon” He began, in French.

The man from his dinner with Ginger turned, smiling warmly and replying in the same language. “I hope this means you will be working with us?”  
“If you’ll still have me” Algy replied frankly, smile becoming broader when Cardon tapped some papers on his desk. “You are too kind.”  
“Not at all” Cardon stood, going to a battered wardrobe and retrieving a bottle of brandy from it, “It is early, but we must toast this auspicious occasion. To our newest employee” Algy took the glass with every show of readiness, tapping it against his new bosses and sipping the contents with every air of a man who is impressed with the taste. Cardon, also savouring the drink, re-seated himself. Following some discussion as to particulars and the ‘side-benefits’ Algy would receive for his work, Cardon stood again, shaking the hand of his new employer in a clear dismissal. “I shall leave you to get acquainted with your new colleagues” he said grandly. Algy, for his part, was quite keen to do this so was as prompt as Cardon would have wished in following his request.

***

Biggles and Bertie, meanwhile, were becoming more concerned for their hapless fourth member. There was still no sign of him, and Biggles wasn’t entirely sure he could manage their new radio without him. Not that he wasn’t entirely capable of undertaking his own transmissions in the usual sense of the word, but this new voice ‘scrambler’ was something he’d not been exposed to before and he had no wish to make a fool of himself or worse, endanger people through inadvertently transmitting in the clear.

“I’ll pop on down to the casino once we have this contraption set up” Bertie volunteered, “take a look around for him. You know how easy it is to get caught up there.”   
“If he’s been sitting there gambling away then I’ll have more than a few strong words to say to him” Biggles growled, spreading the various wires and boxes out over the desk in Bertie and Ginger’s room. “Here, is this yours?” he added, arrested in the process of clearing space by knocking up against a slim volume of ‘selected verse by great authors’.   
“Just educating myself old chap” Bertie replied easily, taking the volume and depositing it on his nightstand, “used to read a fair bit at school but got rather out of the habit afterwards.”  
“Good for you” Biggles smiled, squinting slightly at the instructions before carefully connecting wires and boxes with many checks and double-checks of the paper. “Come and double check this for me, will you? Then you’d better go and find that infernal Ginger.”   
Bertie chuckled, doing as Biggles asked and nodding, satisfied. “Looks good to me, Biggles. I’ll leave you to it then.” Taking a stamped envelope from the inside cover of his poetry book, he shrugged into a jacket and smoothed down his moustache, “see you in a bit then” he grinned, trotting off. Biggles just grunted, already engrossed in his next task.


	8. What happened to Ginger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drew's poem is 'Ode to Beauty' by Emerson.  
> Ginger's song is 'Gamblin' Man', a UK hit for Lonnie Donegan.  
> huff-duff in this sense is the slang term for HFDF or High Frequency Direction Finding.   
> The radio is loosely based on the A13 model introduced as part of 'Larkspur' (I emphasise 'based on' here! Lassitude employed in the interests of plot, and all that.). 
> 
> Speaking of radios, I had an argument with myself regarding the use of actual names but decided that for story flow (and in keeping with Johns' relaxed approach to such things) it was alright to use names over the transmission. Names of adversaries are in capitals purely because I imagine Biggles maintains the habit even when scribbling away to himself.

It was a lovely morning, Bertie thought to himself, stroking his moustache and stepping out onto the main road. There was a gentle breeze and the sun was everything a man could want when he was away from England. His tie shifted lazily in the little gusts of wind he encountered passing other streets; it was impossible to think that anything particularly terrible had happened to his friend. His first stop was the post office, where he posted Drew’s letter and then received one in return as per their agreement to shield Bertie from questions about his mail; letter in hand he retired to a café and savoured the gentle words over a coffee. Sitting in the quiet establishment it was easy to remember the way Drew’s eyes would crinkle at him over the top of whatever he was reading, the smell of his favoured blend of tea, the feel of their fingers entwining against his woollen trousers and then separating gently to rub Towser’s ears – Drew was not a quiet reader.

The feeling of being home eased his shoulders and jaw until he was stepping inside the casino Ginger had last been seen at. Bertie hadn’t been lying when he’d told Algy all those years ago that he had met Tom in a casino, though he had been far from truthful regarding their subsequent activities. To this day, and despite having gone to many such establishments since, casinos were inextricably linked with Tom. Bertie wasn’t any more superstitious than any other pilot you might meet, but he always crossed his thumb with his index finger when he walked in; call it an appeasement to the spirit of his first love.

“Well this is bally useless!” Bertie muttered to himself, having walked twice around the mostly-empty floors and found nobody who looked at all helpful. At this time of the morning, the people spread sporadically around were either unable to remember what they’d been doing the previous night, or were not the sort to pay attention to others around them. Bertie did find a sympathetic barman or two, but everyone he spoke with was in agreement that Ginger had left before midnight and had left alone. “A fat lot of good that does me.” Bertie reflected, retreating from the casino and pondering his next move. He tried to imagine what his erstwhile companion would have been thinking about as he left but as he often didn’t really understand what Ginger was thinking about this was not wholly a success. Eventually, however, he decided that a group of ‘friendly fellows’ who were actually friendly would be looking for drinks and maybe a show, so he turned left and sauntered up the road, slipping his hand into his pocket to feel the crinkle of blue air mail paper. Drew had revealed a taste for Odes early in their correspondence, and Emerson’s words danced through Bertie’s head as he made his way towards the collection of clubs and restaurants. This was looking to be a morning of drudgery, so he may-as-well take what pleasure he could find.

***

Meanwhile, back at their hotel, Biggles was busy with the radio. It seemed a lot bigger than the ones he had seen going in to the Auster and, earlier, other aircraft. Even the one in the Lancastrian he had truly disliked flying in had seemed small-ish, but Biggles knew this was just because he saw only a small aspect of it and that a large portion of the weight of his ‘kite’ was the batteries required to run their technology. After all, there were boxes of things behind the buttons they used on the aeroplane. The buttons he was going to use this morning weren’t connected to much at all. In this particular instance there wasn’t even necessarily someone listening at the other end. There were girls (and boys, sometimes) who maintained a listening watch but they were frequency hopping for all intents and purposes, and Biggles was transmitting outside of a scheduled time. Luckily this wouldn’t prevent his transmission from being recorded straight onto their audio tapes and registering as an automatic alert for whoever came in next. It wouldn’t do if they needed immediate assistance but as a method of communicating information from the field, it was a vast step up from a debrief once they returned. Biggles had no qualms at all.

Designed to be lightweight, using the transistors that had led to Ginger and Algy scribbling excitedly all over their dining room table, the radio sat squat and khaki on the desk in his suite. Biggles drew a single piece of paper towards him, then reconsidered and placed another five on top, removing a light pencil from his breast pocket and thinning his lips. Despite the ruggedized frame and angle modulation, this wouldn’t give him very many minutes and he had no wish to waste them hemming and hawing. Carefully, Biggles came up with the bare bones of his report, then fleshed it out, reading it through several times until he was happy there was no way to misinterpret what he was saying or that he had left anything out. Eventually, he depressed the transmitter and began.

_Arrived with nil to report. Lacey leading investigation into person of interest at aerodrome. Person’s name CARDON. Lacey has job flying for CARDON. Premises appear near aerodrome with club house back rooms also in use. Investigation ongoing but appears point of departure for England. Lissie and self met mutual friend unexpectedly. Friend has been approached by WEEBLE ABLE SMYTH in manner outlined during brief. WEEBLE ABLE SMYTH playing role of femme fatale. Hebblethwaite following own lead, last reported in last night. Out._

The transmission completed, Biggles carefully picked up all the pieces of paper he had placed on the desk, taking them to the window and opening it before moving in to the small washroom and lighting each piece with his lighter. Once they had all been turned into ash, he turned the tap on half pressure and swept them all down the basin. That done, he dampened the towel and wiped each surface to ensure there were no tell-tale signs of ash anywhere. It was only once he had finished tidying up any hints of his need to write things down that he made his way back into the bedroom. He reappeared just as the door started opening.

A ginger blur rushed past, making straight for the radio and fumbling with it. “Here! What do you think you’re doing?” Biggles expostulated.  
“What do I think _I’m_ doing?” Ginger retorted, standing back and running a freckled hand through his hair, “what about what _you’re_ doing? Blatting away on that thing as if nobody would like to do their own transceiving.” The younger man was so earnest that Biggles couldn’t quite hold back a chortle even as he shook his head. “I turned it off”   
“No, you merely turned the encryption off. It sends out a constant unmodulated stream as a baseline. Everything is off now – see? You forgot this switch.”  
Biggles had to admit that he had, in fact, not turned the power switch. “In my defence, usually we don’t go around with a radio that transmits constantly.”  
“Well you do when you want this to bounce over to England. Let’s pack this all up in case anyone else was monitoring and gets interested.” Ginger was halfway through screwing on the last cap and replacing the equipment in his half-full valise before Biggles started talking again.

“How did you know it was still transmitting? And where have you been?” If his voice was somewhat sharper than strictly necessary, neither of them acknowledged it.   
“Before we go into all that, I need a change of shirt, and a shave.” Ginger grinned meaningfully at his mentor, “a cup of tea and breakfast wouldn’t go amiss, either.” He pointed out.  
“Cheeky. Alright, go and wash, I’ll send down for something to eat. Then you sit and tell me everything. You do realise Bertie is out scouring the streets for you right now?”  
“Is he?” Ginger sounded more amused than anything, “well he’ll be a bit peeved when he gets back, I bet.” He was still chortling as he closed the door to the bathroom behind him. Shaking his head again, Biggles returned to the ‘phone and ordered the lad a proper breakfast along with a pot of tea for himself.

In the end, the breakfast arrived before Ginger, and Biggles was well through his first cup of tea by the time he was no longer alone in the room. “I know you’ve spent a lot of time in casinos, but do we really need to hear that song?”  
“It’s a classic!”  
“It’s not a classic, it’s a one-hit wonder by an American. I don’t know why you’re so keen on learning all about their culture.”  
“I don’t see why you aren’t, chief. Sorry, boss.” Ginger whistled _well I’d not been down in Washington, many more weeks than three_ and hastily cut himself off as he sat down to eat. Biggles could be quite the stickler.

“You got my note?” he began, once the first few mouthfuls had started their way into his empty body.  
“We got it eventually. Apparently the delivery boy had some sort of sister emergency. Algy thinks it’s just an excuse, but you know what Algy’s like.”  
“I dunno why. Gwen is a peach.” Ginger gulped down some coffee to hide his flush and added quickly, “well, anyway. That part was true, got in with a bunch of boys who weren’t quite right if you ask me. Figured it would be better to make friends with them than come back and do the official stuff later, and it panned out fine.” Ginger paused for another mouthful of his breakfast and Biggles waited as patiently as he could. He was getting a new appreciation for Algy when everyone left him to go out on jobs!   
Ginger continued, “we headed to a coupl’a clubs, had a few drinks. They were handing around some other things but I managed to palm them off without anyone seeing. Then we ended up at one of the guy’s pads. He’s English so we were getting on like a house on fire anyway, but I made sure to pick up the tab and that got me sitting around his front room. Managed to get away and scout around and they’re definitely up to no good. There’s piles of boxes there full of drugs and different money. Lots of Marks and Lira, but heaps of Francs and Pounds, and a few other things like Schillings and Drachma as well. I was going to take some but I figured there was no safe way to get them back any time soon and they might have noticed. I know where they are though. Anyway, there’s three of them living there and they’ve got it all done up pretty nicely. Plenty of paintings and statues and things, and I said it looked nice and they said thanks, but sort of changed the conversation, you know? Like they didn’t want me to ask too many questions, so of course I didn’t. But I went back to the room with the money and so on and in one corner there was a different box, and it had lots of jewellery in it. Just sort of sitting there like they knew nobody was going to take a look. I guess they figured I wouldn’t or they wouldn’t have invited me.”  
“They probably also heard you’ve been hanging around with Algy, and they think he spends his spare time smoking these cigarettes too. Enough that they trust him to need them, not so much that they don’t think he can fly a plane.”  
“I thought of that too. But still, I didn’t want to be there when they came around properly.” At Biggles’ confused look, he explained, “they were all smoking those things by this stage, and were getting more and more mellow. You remember Collins saying the next step is paranoia, well for some people anyway, and I didn’t want to risk that. So I sort of faded to the background and started heading back here.”  
The older pilot nodded at the mention of their main drug squad contact. “But you didn’t end up here.” He replied shrewdly.

“I didn’t end up here” Ginger echoed, “no. Because I was heading along thinking of this and that and I thought, we must be able to track where Algy is. He has a plane, after all, and planes have radios. Well, alright” he amended at Biggles’ look, “Algy’s plane has a radio. Most planes do these days. Now we know they’ll pick him up on radar on his way in to England but he doesn’t have any homing devices in there, it’s not like they went ahead and put in a VOR or whatever. So we won’t know where he is, and neither will his new bosses. It worried me a bit, because some of the boys I’d been drinking with were clever chaps, and they obviously had a bit of knowledge. I decided that they must have something rigged up out at the airfield, and that if they did we could put the wind up them by telling Algy to transmit differently somehow, or I could take something out of their gear. By this stage it was pretty late – early I suppose – and everything was jolly quiet so I legged it over to the rooms at the aerodrome and took a look around.”   
Biggles looked somewhat reproving at this laissez-faire approach to locked property, but it was hard to be too tough when he had undoubtedly been acting for the greater good. Sometimes it was handy having a more…diverse…member of their team.

“So, there was nobody around and I found their comms cen. They have lots of kit there, all nicely labelled and so on, no need to pretend I suppose. There was a sort of huff-duff looking thing and I got busy looking at it. Took a while to sort everything out because it wasn’t one of ours. I think it was built on a Soviet design cause it was like nothing I’ve seen before. Then some chaps came in early and started getting some things ready. They were talking about that Weeble-Able-Smyth girl, you know?”  
“I know” Biggles replied grimly, “what were they saying?”

Ginger was just in the middle of explaining how the mysterious chaps had been complaining the girl had yet to convince Bertie Wooster to part with money, jewels, or information, when they were interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of Bertie Lissie arriving in the room next door. “Go on.” Biggles said, “catch him up. I’ll see you both in my room once you’d calmed him down. You can finish the story there.”

Biggles had stopped pacing the room, and smoked a calming cigarette by the time his team mates turned up. Bertie didn’t seem any the worse for his trek about town, and Biggles wondered what had happened to make his friend quite so happy.

“You had just been nearly interrupted at the huff-duff, or whatever they call it” he reminded Ginger.   
“That’s right! They had a cuppa or something and headed off again and I was pretty pleased, I can tell you. I decided to turn the thing on to make sure it worked and see what the readings looked like before I took a piece out.”  
“And when you turned it on you saw my transmission.”  
“Not quite right then, I turned it on and worked out what bit I could take out without killing the screen entirely, and then I turned it on again to do a final check before I took the piece out and I saw a transmission. We’re pretty close to the airfield, and it was a faint reading, but there’s nothing over in this direction other than the city. It was a pretty interesting freq., too, so I thought it wasn’t going to be a normal broadcast. I grabbed the bit and tidied up, legging it over here. Luckily there was a taxi right outside.” Ginger grinned, “probably waiting for someone more important but there you go!”  
“And you stopped my blank transmission. Good job, Ginger.”

Ginger fairly glowed under the compliment but all he said was, “swell, chief.”


	9. The battleship slips her moorings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem alluded to is "Camomile Tea" by Katherine Mansfield (https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/camomile-tea/) which invokes the sort of feelings I imagine the two feel when they're able to snuggle into their love nest and is vaguely from the correct era.

I’d been told by Jeeves that I could weasel out of the dance with a proper excuse, thus preventing me from having to present a bauble. He suggested that I offer an alternative of an intimate dinner, explaining that I had found the Grandmere’s brooch but needed to have it cleaned. I had rung to make this suggestion to her and had been turned down like a bedspread. “I promised my friends we’d be there, Mr Wooster, and I intend to keep that promise. You may see me at breakfast tomorrow. I shall expect you at ten. Good _night_.”   
“I think she may be a little scared, Jeeves.” I informed him, “but she still wants to breakfast with self so it can’t be that bad.”  
“I shan’t pretend not to enjoy the idea of a night in, Bertram” he practically purred, “In the morning you must be prepared for some unpleasantness, but I’m sure she will come around. You remember the description of the brooch?”  
“Jeeves, is now the time to speak of brooches? I would rather hear your thoughts on camomile tea.” The dear man chuckled richly and allowed me to make us a pot of tea for us to take at the kitchen table. It was a rich feeling to indulge so, and we both savoured the words rolling off his tongue.

***

When the beazel and I did meet the next morning, she looked rather the worse for wear. She revived like one of those witches you hear about somewhere after the second cup of coffee, but was listless enough that she accepted the brooch story with little response. All in all it was one of the most depressing meals eaten in the history of a particularly terrible courtship and I was glad to escape with no more than an agreement to attend a supper. She headed off as though to an important meeting and I strolled along the water enjoying the day and puzzling over some of the things she had said. I simply could not decipher why she was so concerned about my knowledge of jewellery shops and patronage of the same. Besides which she asked rather odd questions around my friends and how many of them were from different parts of England. I started telling her about the jolly old newt fancier Gussie Fink-Nottle, but she seemed particularly disinterested in people who hid in their country houses and more interested in people in London. It wasn’t until later that I realised how lucky I was she hadn’t come out and asked about aviators straight away for I should have told her all about Bertie and his chums, not knowing at the time that it wasn’t the sort of information she should have.

I spent some of the afternoon with said chappies, as a matter of fact. Well, with Bertie actually, the others apparently being tied up. We took a turn along a promenade smoking like a couple of companionable chimneys in spring, and naturally the conversation turned what Jeeves would term ‘personal circumstances’. Turned out the chappie – Bertie, I mean – had been the lucky recipient of a jolly sort of letter from his mate Drew. Knowing the aforementioned object of the aviator’s affections, it was with some interest that I listened to him wax a tad on the lyrical side. It was all terribly common I’m bound to say, but it’s unusual for chaps in our situation to have someone to speak with and he enjoyed the opportunity. More than once, I’d spoken with Jeeves about nudging Biggles and Algy into telling Bertie what was going on under his nose, but Jeeves always shook his head and averred it wasn’t our place. One sample of conversation is outlined below for those who appreciate the full story. Those reading under a time pressure – waiting for a bus, say, or in between Aunts – can skip ahead till the story picks up again.

“I’m sure they have considered the matter frequently and at length” he would assure me, “it is not to us to suggest they reconsider.”  
“A case of easy for us, but they have to live with it, you mean?”  
“As you say. One false step would be dangerous to any of the three of them; I am sure this is the main reason they are maintaining their silence on the matter.”  
“That and it being jolly awkward for the kid.”  
“Mr Hebblethwaite is hardly a child, but I take your point. I understand he is particularly interested in the fairer sex, though somewhat diffident about actually achieving the desired results.”  
I played this through the noggin a couple of times before smirking, “you don’t mean to say he’s yet to enjoy the, well, one doesn’t wish to be crass but…”  
“I did not say that. Merely that I understand that currently there is no especial friend of his, unusual in one of his age, temperament, and business.”  
“Yes. I’m sure the fillies are all into the pilots and whatnot. It’s a glamorous job.”  
“Indeed. I am of the opinion that young ladies enjoy such jobs in their young men.”  
“There’s no accounting for taste, is there Jeeves?”

Well, we had exhausted the ingenious plan for Drew and Bertie to send soppy messages to each other along with more prosaic letters, and had moved on to the state of love in general, before the combination of finished cigarette and sudden evening breeze recalled self to duty. Hastily pressing the flesh, I retired to dress.

While I hadn’t been looking forward to the blasted supper, I’d been prepared for it, and to find myself alone rather than _a deux_ was rather miffing. After all, when one has donned the stiff-fronted and endured a short lecture on why this is a superior garment to the soft-fronted of one’s desire, then one wants the effort to be not in vain. But in vain it was. I mooched around for a bit before deciding that I mayaswell have a drink, at least, and seated myself at the watering hole of the agreed establishment. The rushed looking chappy who was leaping around behind the bar like a rabbit looking for his lettuce, laid eyes on me and perked up somewhat. “You’re Mr Wooster?” he interrogated rather like an actor in a bad movie. When I had established my credentials he shook the noggin. “she’s not coming.” He reported with some glee, “rang through and said to say that. Says if you’re going to toy with her affections like that then you clearly mean no good” he glared at me as though the Weeble Able Smyth was his own sister and tutted gently. “I guess you’ll want some whisky then.”  
“Brandy, my good man.” I corrected absently. This was a turn for the books! I needed to speak with my man to untangle this, and post haste, but first a couple snifters in celebration. Said man had the evening off and had planned to spend it at the club the Junior Ganymede had reciprocal rights with, so there was no rush. No rush at all, and plenty to celebrate. Despite the general mood of celebration, however,   
I was miffed more than a little. In line with Jeeves’ suggestion I had prepared a closely-reasoned argument to give the menace, full of hearts yearning but pledged to another and that sort of rot. He had decided that with the woman already turning off the young master it was the correct time to change our campaign. I had pointed out it was but 48 hours since we had been spinning tales about the brooch, but Jeeves had pointed out that circumstances change quickly and we were better off adjusting, a change I had agreed with eagerly. We’d practiced the speech till I was word-perfect and a largeish part of my frustration was at not getting to deliver the goods, so to speak. I felt rather like one of those wind-up toys you win at the church fete, all wound up and nowhere to go.


End file.
